Ophelia: Sweet, but not lasting
by JenniferBCCU
Summary: The story of Hamlet from Ophelia's point of view. (Written in 2003 for my high school senior English class.)


OPHELIA: "SWEET, BUT NOT LASTING"  
  
From the moment I met him, it seemed as though he had the potential for madness. The death of his father nearly destroyed Hamlet, leaving him aloof and mysterious. It was clear to me, however, that while he said very little, his mind was always running. I had hoped one day to uncover what it was that he kept internalized, whirling through his mind, casting dark shadows over his eyes, but I never had that chance.  
  
Despite the brevity of our relationship, I had no reason to doubt his love for me. The intimate nature of our relationship surely would have disgraced my father, but I was secure in believing that Hamlet's flowery proclamations of love and devotion were sincere. I was pleased by the reassurance that I would one day be his wife.  
  
My father and brother, however, were ardent in their belief that Hamlet was disingenuous. I first listened, incredulously, as my brother warned that our love was like "a violet in the youth of primy nature, forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, the perfume and suppliance of a minute, no more." I was secretly outraged that he would suggest that Hamlet's love for me would be fleeting. My mind wondered slightly as his didactic lecture continued. Nearly six inches taller I, he found satisfaction in towering over me, pulling my chin upwards so I would have to gaze up at his eyes, leading him to believe that his intimidating glare could permeate my own inferior eyes. To an onlooker it might have appeared to be a touching scene: a brother offering insight, trying to protect his sister before he left. I knew better, however. There was no love or caring in his voice, only callous admonitions and superior ramblings. This disheartening diatribe was my brother's attempt to say goodbye, and trying to please him, I promised to mind his advice.  
  
Upon my brother's departure, my father continued the lecture. My heart broke as I heard my own father suggest that Hamlet saw nothing more in me than a youthful, gullible girl he could use to fulfill his desires. Holding back tears I tried to defend my interactions with Hamlet, explaining his sincerity and affection toward me, feelings that my own kin severely lacked. I wanted to explain the entire situation, just how sure of our love I was, but divulging these details would shed light on the "disreputable" nature of our relationship.  
  
My father would hear not hear my argument, however, and his interruptions became exasperating. His temper grew with each passing minute, and unlike my brother, he made no attempt to camouflage the orders as tender concern. In order to protect my reputation, but more importantly his own, I was expected to submit to his demands. As far as my father was concerned, he knew how to live my life, I did not.  
  
In one final resolve-shattering roar, my father ordered, "I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth have you so slander any moment leisure as to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet."  
  
Ashamed to have allowed my heart to give way to such demands, I choked down my tears and replied, "I shall obey, my lord." If nothing else, I could try to be a good daughter.  
  
In the days following that conversation, I had to avoid Hamlet. I stayed in my room, mostly, not wanting to confront him. He wrote touching letters, speaking of how he wished to see me. The notes were coherent, but obviously scribbled quickly and passionately. His handwriting was wild, with dramatic loops and "t's" crossed with slashes. His emotion and desperation were evident in his writing, but I couldn't bring myself reply. I stared at the letters confusedly, wondering why I was hurting someone I loved simply to appease my father. As much as the argument went back and forth in my mind, I knew that I could not disobey my father, and the sooner I would let Hamlet fade into memory the better off I would be.  
  
I sat alone in my room trying to sew, trying to forget Hamlet. I worked on the craft diligently, eager to finish the first task and move onto the next. I always found great satisfaction in my sewing. There was a subtle thrill in completing one project and starting over on an untouched piece of white fabric. Whatever I decided to create on that fabric was my choice alone. There was no interference. My father and Laertes cared little about my needlepoint.  
  
One day, while I was sewing, the sound of footsteps in my room broke the usual silence. Startled, I dropped my sewing. I knelt down to pick it up, and as I stood up, I saw Hamlet staggering toward me. The dim light entering the room through the slightly-opened curtain allowed me to get a glimpse of his figure. He stood before me, his stockings falling down, sloppily bunching up around his ankles. His unfastened jacket was nearly falling off his shoulders as he slouched and stared at me. The blonde hair on his hatless head was wild and uncombed. Although he looked directly at me, I could not tell if he could see me through the shadow cast over his eyes, now darker than ever.  
  
I nervously picked at the threads in my needlepoint, and as I took apart my sewing, I wondered if Hamlet wouldn't unravel himself, right before me. He took a few more steps toward me and I backed away trembling. He grabbed my wrist pulling it up from my sewing. In the days I had stopped seeing him, I longed to feel Hamlet hold me again, but he was not himself, and his embrace was no longer a comfort. I turned away from his stare, unable to look at him in such a pitiful state. I would have been grateful if he had said anything, even the incoherent rambling I had prepared myself for, but he only let out a sorrowful sigh. It was as if he was no longer human. He then turned around, and wandered out of my room.  
  
Left alone, I stood there for a moment, too shocked to move. Still dazed, I left my room to tell my father what had happened. I did not particularly care to discuss anything with him at the moment, but I was frightened and needed to make sense of what happened.  
  
Perhaps my refusal to see Hamlet tested his potential madness. My father believed that it was his lust for me that led him to insanity, and was only correct when he said our love, "being kept close, might move more grief to hide than hate to utter love." I began to wonder if by denying my feelings for Hamlet I would destroy us both. I was especially concerned about Hamlet, who first having lost his father, now had to lose another one he loved. Surely this had the potential to drive anyone to madness.  
  
Ending the relationship had been hard enough, but now my father requested that I assist in deceiving Hamlet even more. I had promised Hamlet that I would meet with him, but my father and King Claudius soon began to orchestrate their own plot, using me against my will. My father handed me a book so it would not seem odd that I was alone in the room, and the men hid as Hamlet entered. He wandered in with the same haunting look he had that day in my room, still plagued by madness. I could not bare the thought of hurting the broken man before me more than I already had, but knowing that my father was listening, I renounced my love. The conversation that had begun civilly, soon turned to chaos. Hamlet swore that he had never loved me; that he had deceived me. Taken by surprise, I could do nothing more than admit to being fooled. Perhaps my father was right. What if I was naïve and Hamlet's love for me was only based on lies.  
  
Nonetheless, I held on to the hope that Hamlet was only speaking this way because of his madness. I prayed that he was only hurting me because I had hurt him. The king, however, believed that love was not the cause of Hamlet's illness, and wanted to send him to England. I thought of objecting, but could not speak out in front of my father and Claudius, so I said nothing. I was saddened once again by my refusal to speak out on behalf of my beloved Hamlet.  
  
After that upsetting episode, I saw Hamlet once more at a play he brought before the king. Hamlet asked if he could place his head on my lap, and though inappropriate, I permitted him to do so. For a brief moment, it felt like times passed. It felt familiar, and for a second, as we sat so close together, it seemed as though the old Hamlet had returned, as if he wasn't truly mad. Sadly, his bizarre behavior returned only moments later. His insults were stronger, more corrosive and more offensive than ever. For the first time, I truly believed that Hamlet's affection for me had only been a façade.  
  
Soon thereafter, I received word that my father had been murdered in England. It was now I, having lost a parent and having been spurned by a loved one, was left to go mad.  
  
In those final days, however, my thoughts were only with Hamlet. There was no use trying to make sense of anything. I wandered helplessly, singing of unrequited love, feeling myself grow more insane by the day. It was not initially the desire to end my life that led me up to the cliff, however. I saw flowers growing free and abundant on the cliff, and remembered how Laertes had compared Hamlet's love to a flower, "sweet, not lasting." He had been right, and I resented him for it. So perhaps it was this revelation that led me to consider ending my life. Or was it because of my father, or Hamlet, or some greater shame? It didn't matter. I had tried to be a respectful sister, an obedient daughter, and a loyal betrothed, but I had failed at all three. If there was another role I was meant to play in my life, I would undoubtedly fail at that as well. Now I was alone, and the choice to leave this world was mine to make.  
  
I sat on the cliff weaving the flowers together, threading their stems with one another, until I completed a wreath. I placed it on my head, and unable to bring myself to jump, I stepped onto a branch, knowing that it would break under my weight. The branch cracked and I landed in the cool water. It numbed my body was the stream engulfed me, tugging down on my dress, gripping onto my tangled hair. As the water possessed me, I looked at the floral wreath that had landed in stream next to me. It too had become saturated and was pulled under by the current. The brief lives of the flowers, like Hamlet's love, and my own existence, were "sweet, but not lasting."


End file.
